Medicine is for the Weak
by iviscrit
Summary: "Illness was a bloody inconvenience, that's what it was , and he did not take to it kindly." Tom is sick, and won't admit he is. Implied T/M but not really. Please R&R!


A/N: My first attempt at getting inside Tom's head. Hope you enjoy!

There's only one downside to being strong, he decides, hand shooting to his temple as the headache crashes over him again. It's that intolerable feeling of helplessness he encounters when he's sick, forced to rest as his body recovers from whatever insipid virus has taken up residence in his blood cells. He shifts position, frustrated and never comfortable. The bed feels alien; his well-organized mind is cluttered and confused as each splitting headache shatters any semblance of coherent thought he carefully and tentatively amassed. Illness has taken from him even thought, something he assumed he'd always have possession of. What will be next, sanity?

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to quell the odd vibrating pain behind them, willing it to go away. It's not effective, but he convinces himself it will be if he just waits it out, mind slipping into a corner as he rides out the discomfort. He props himself up against pillows as he carefully pulls out textbooks, keeping his head as still as possible and moving slowly when impossible, beginning his homework. He glances surreptitiously at the other 'patients' in the room. They are of a different caliber than he; they openly turn ashen, they rest their heads on folded arms, they punctuate every movement with a gasp of pain, one that he refuses to allow to pass his lips. He doesn't belong here among the sick, and he knows it. He tried to avoid coming here in the first place.

Classes, usually a source of enjoyment in his day, were agony. More than once he found himself drifting off, his writing dwindling into illegible ribbons and finally threads of dark ink, undulating across the smooth white paper. His notes are incoherent and he rests his head on the desk, realizing what he's doing every few minutes and sitting up again, leaning against the chair, feeling sheets of his body heat leave him and dissipate in the cold room. Perhaps it is only cold to him. In between classes he reclines on a couch in the library, a sheaf of notes on his lap as he tries to study for the impending biology test, but he fails despite numerous attempts.

"You look like death," his friend -though he doesn't consider him one- said. "You should just go home, that's what I would do." He doesn't think it's necessary to say that that alone is reason enough to not heed his advice, but instead he laughs, glibly saying "really?" and goes on with his day.

At lunch he felt nauseated, and felt no inclination to let food pass his lips, overwhelmed as he was by his symptoms. The biting wind only exacerbated his condition; wind and low temperatures that at an earlier time he found too warm for a coat have reduced him to a shivering, feverish child, bundled up even in the drafty hallways. he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror somewhere, and was surprised -and slightly proud- to see his dark eyes cloaked in shadow, dark circles hemming them and his face pale. His numb pianists fingers explore his face. It doesn't feel warm to him, but he could be wrong...

"Do I have a temperature?" he asks here, and he feels her cool hand on first his neck, then his cheek, and then his forehead as she looks at him, worry in her eyes. He doesn't see this; his eyes are shut. "I don't of course," he says before she presents him with her diagnosis. He must be right first.

She frowns, thoughtful and concerned, her surprise at his state palpable. "I don't _think_ so," she says uncertainly. "You look terrible, though. Why are you still here?"

He explains, briefly, what an ordeal the day has been, saying flippantly with a sardonic smile, "Medicine is for the weak." He knows his intention is to fabricate some semblance of strength when it's so obvious there is none, his still more quiet intention is to impress, something he knows he has done though she'll never admit it and give him that satisfaction.

"Famous last words," she says, still frowning. "What happened to 'perhaps not drying my hair in 40 degree weather _may_ have been a mistake'?"

"Likely it was," he says. Those were his last words to her that day and now at seven o' clock he finds himself here, irritable with too much to do. Illness was a bloody inconvenience, that's what it was , and he did not take to it kindly. He needed his health, needed his strength, if for nothing else just for the knowledge that he had it. Control and dominance were such an integral part of his nature that once he was stripped of his means to have the two, he felt naked, missing a piece of his identity.

He lay between cool white cotton sheets, his body sore and unwilling to respond to his commands. His brain whirs and and exercises twice as hard -to compensate for his limbs' inability to do so, he like to think- likely because he can do nothing to distract his mind. He finds some things in the room perfect though, and finds respite in contemplating them. The fluid lines of his arm and hand against the gentle slopes and peaks of starched white, the gentle rustles the sheets make as his body adjusts position are like a a thousand soft reminders to remain still and rest. The tinkle of ice against glass and the trickle of water is more refreshing than the drink itself as it pours down his aching throat. It chills him even as he forces himself to stop shivering and drink it. He finds himself wanting hot tea with lemon, a cup of steaming night with a tart wedge of sunshine on the saucer, and he resolves to get it himself. He hates the idea of dependency on others, or perhaps he only trusts himself. His bare feet find the smooth tile floor, cool and gently worn with the grout providing grid lines of indented texture to the leathery skin on the soles of his feet. The light scent of her perfume wafts over, and he stops, wondering.

"Get back in bed, you idiot," she commands, setting down the tray she carried moments ago and pushing him back onto the pillows. He feels himself losing control, and knows he must rally at once.

"Minerva, I'm fine. I was about to get some-"

"Tea? With lemon?" She held up the pot. "I brought you some already. You need it, you look like shit."

"Touching," he says, forcing his voice to sound light and uncaring, hating the vague scratchy quality it has as a result of the virus. "Don't be loud, it aggravates the headache."

"Did you take anything for it?" She hands him the steaming cup. "Swallow your damn pride and drink."

"Of course." He lies easily, ignoring the tea he holds between his palms, letting the warmth seep into him. To actually drink it would be akin to relinquishing control of the situation at hand.

"And it's no better?" She looks worried now, and he curses his constitution for not vanquishing the virus faster.

"No, it's improved a bit." He refuses to let her win, he doesn't want her sympathy, though he knows he'd be offended if she expressed none.

"You're so waspish when you're sick," she mutters, laying her soft cool hand against his forehead again. "You're warm."

"Obviously."

"You... should rest."

"What a novel concept." He looks at her from where he lies, propped up by the pillows, dark hair such a contrast to the antiseptic bedclothes, dark eyes sombre and challenging.

"Well... feel better soon." And she leaves.

He smiles even though he feels like frowning. He smiles because he knows he has won, but as he finally sips the tea she brought him, knowing she won't see him doing it, he frowns, because he'd rather she come back and despite his control, he knows he can't make her.

**A/N: First time writing a serious TomPOV story. This is literally how I feel when I'm sick, only a bit exaggerated. I tried to make it seem as though he was sick without making him whiny-helpless-cliche-annoying. Let's say he has strep or something, that always makes you feel like crap. Hope you enjoyed it, and please review! **


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